Sherman Alexie - Indian Killer

“Do you believe in lightning?” John asked Paul Too.

“Hey, John,” said Paul Too. “Why don’t you come down off that counter? Your coffee is getting cold.”

John jumped off the counter, stumbled, then regained his balance. He leaned in close to Paul Too. Paul grabbed the smelly mop from behind the counter and stepped closer to the pair, ready to defend the old man. John had always kept his distance from people before. He had always maintained an invisible barrier around himself. If anybody stepped inside that barrier, John would immediately move away. But now John had his face in Paul Too’s face. He was a foot taller than the small black man, but Paul Too never blinked. John’s breath smelled of coffee, donut, and smoke, like something was burning inside of him.

“Can you hear him praying?” John asked Paul Too.

“Who?”

“Father Duncan. He’s outside.”

Paul and Paul Too looked out into the empty street.

“You’re a nigger,” John blurted out. “You’re both niggers.”

Paul tightened his grip on the mop, moved a little closer to John, who growled at Paul’s approach. Paul Too motioned for Paul to back off.

“Now,” said Paul Too. “That ain’t a nice thing to say.”

Paul was ready to smack John over the head. He was scared. John’s face looked like he had just stepped out of a late Picasso.

“What would happen if I killed you?” John asked.

“I’d be dead,” said Paul Too.

“Nobody would even care,” said John in a new strange singsong voice. “I watch the news. I read the papers. Nobody cares about you. Black people get killed every day and nobody cares. It wouldn’t even matter. Killing a black man wouldn’t get me famous, would it? Killing a black man wouldn’t solve a thing, would it?”

As he spoke, John could hear Father Duncan’s sandals scratching against the sand. A soft shuffle in the rain. A whisper. Nothing makes sense. If you kill a black man, the world is silent. You can hear a garage door opening from twenty blocks away. You can pick up a pay phone and hear only the dial tone. Shooting stars sound exactly like the soft laughter of a little girl in Gas Works Park. If you kill a white man, the world erupts with noise: fireworks, sirens, a gavel pounding a desk, the slamming of doors. John could not understand the economics of it. Read the newspapers if you can ignore the paper cuts. Watch television if you can avoid the heat emanating from the screen, which is meant to cook your brain. Nothing made sense.

John closed his eyes, rubbed his head. He could not understand. He needed help. Marie. She would help him if only he had something to give her in return.

“Hey, John,” said Paul Too. “Look at me. It’s your friend. It’s me, Paul Too.”

John opened his eyes, stared at Paul Too.

“I’m sorry,” said John. “I can’t help it. Any of it.”

Paul Too patted John’s shoulder, which caused the big Indian to recoil. He backed away from Paul Too. John looked at Paul, who was holding the flimsy mop like a broadsword.

“You could be the devil,” John screamed at both men and ran out of the donut shop. Paul and Paul Too, weak with relief, fell into chairs.

“Shit,” said Paul. “What the hell was that about?”

“It ain’t looking good. It ain’t looking good at all.”

Paul Too shook his head, picked up a donut, thought about taking a bite, but realized he probably couldn’t swallow.

“That’s it,” said Paul. “I hate this job. I’m quitting.”

“He’s worse than I ever seen him,” said Paul Too. “And he’s been coming in here for years. Since before you got here.”

“You don’t think he’s the one doing that killing, do you?” asked Paul.

“What? John? Oh, no. Don’t be saying that.”

Paul Too threw the donut down with disgust.

“Lord,” he said. “I hate donuts.”

Paul was looking down at the mop in his hands.

“Shit,” said Paul Too. “What were you going to do? Disinfect him?”

MARIE SAT IN AN uncomfortable chair in the office of Dr. Faulkner, the department chair. Faulkner and Dr. Clarence Mather sat opposite her, while Bernice Zamora, the department secretary, was busy taking notes. A replay of Reggie’s meeting, except this time Marie was the hostile Indian.

“Well, since it is your class, Dr. Mather,” said Faulkner, “and since you did file the complaint against Ms. Polatkin, we’d like you to start.”

Mather sat up straight, adjusted his bolo tie, and cleared his throat.

“Well, first of all, I’d like to point out that I have the highest respect for Ms. Polatkin. She is an extremely intelligent girl. And certainly ambitious. But I think her ambitions outweigh her intellect. She is very much like a relative of hers, Reggie Polatkin, who we have some experience with.”

“I don’t know Reggie Polatkin,” said Marie. “I mean, he’s my cousin, but I’ve only met him once or twice. I don’t know anything about him.”

“As you know,” continued Mather, “I am teaching the evening course of the Introduction to Native American Literature class this semester. As a tenured full professor, I certainly don’t have to be teaching an evening class, and as an anthropology professor, I certainly don’t have to be teaching a literature class. But I felt there was a need the University simply wasn’t meeting. I took it upon myself to fill that need. Ms. Polatkin obviously had a need for such a class, and enrolled in my section.”

“Excuse me,” said Marie.

“Yes,” said Faulkner.

“Why isn’t an Indian teaching the class?”

“Why would you ask that?” asked Faulkner.

“Well, when I take a chemistry course, I certainly hope the teacher is a chemist. Women teach women’s lit at this university, don’t they? And I hope that African-Americans teach African-American lit.”

“Do you understand why I have problems with her?” Mather said. “She is incapable of reasoned discussion. I simply will not have her questioning my authority in my class. She must be forced to drop it.”

“Ms. Polatkin,” said Faulkner. “Dr. Mather is an expert in Native American studies. He has published many books and countless articles. He has worked with dozens of Indian tribes. He has been teaching for twenty years.”

“I have been involved with Native Americans longer than you’ve been alive,” Mather said to Marie.

“Listen,” said Marie. “As long as I’ve been alive, I’ve been an Indian.”

“I hardly think this is appropriate,” said Mather with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Why should I have to prove myself to a student, and an undergraduate at that?”

“You really think you know about Indians, don’t you? You’re such an arrogant jerk.”

“Ms. Polatkin, I fail to see where this is getting us,” said Faulkner. “I mean, in light of the tension this Indian Killer situation is causing, I think we should reschedule this meeting for a more appropriate time.”

“I’ve been adopted into a Lakota Sioux family,” protested Mather.

“That just proves some Indians have no taste.”

“Ms. Polatkin, please!” said Faulkner.

“You really think you know about Indians, don’t you?” Marie asked Mather. “You think you know about the Indian Killer, huh? Well, do you know about the Ghost Dance?”

“Of course.”

“Yeah, and you know that Wovoka said if all Indians Ghost Danced, then all the Europeans would disappear, right?”

“Yes, it was a beautiful, and ultimately desperate, act.”

“Yeah, you don’t believe in the Ghost Dance, do you? Oh, you like its symbolism. You admire its metaphorical beauty, enit? You just love Indians so much. You love Indians so much you think you’re excluded from our hatred. Don’t you see? If the Ghost Dance had worked, you wouldn’t be here. You’d be dust.”